


Terribly Afar

by roady



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1440673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roady/pseuds/roady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The very last time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terribly Afar

**Author's Note:**

> In 2009, I deleted my FFN account and all of my stories. It wasn't you, it was me. Sorry about that. I'm back now. Hi.
> 
> This is an un-edited repost from my old FFN account. Originally published in January of 2007.

“Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird  
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.”  
-“it may not always be so; and i say”  
by e. e. cummings

  
I have no illusions about my broken heart. Although I may have denied it to my friends and family in response to their queries with regards to my well being, which amassed in a series of e-mails, phone calls, text messages, voicemails, and a single “get well” card from a somewhat confused grandmother. I honestly felt as though in the exact moment that I heard his old clunker's engine struggle to turn over in the parking lot that a flood of false sympathies came rushing my way, like so many cutting winter winds that seem so many degrees colder now that my right hand hangs empty.  
  
When I look back on it, all I can thing about are the lasts. Not just the simple ones that run through the mind of all those recently forgotten, like “when was the last time we slept together?” and “where was our last kiss?”. No, it was more curious things, often sparked by small instances like grocery shopping or doing the laundry. I thought about the last time he ate cereal for dinner. The last time he created a fort with the couch cushions. The very last time he walked out the door with every intention of returning.  
  
It was these thoughts among others that led me to that stereotypical ex-boyfriend depression, which carried with it not only the trappings of your garden-variety depression but the anger and shame I felt for ever allowing him to affect me so much. I found myself doing pitiful things like lying in bed for hours and watching the sun etch its path across the window. I would stand in the shower long after I had become clean, relishing the sensation of tears mixing with the streams of water from the shower head until neither was discernible from the other. I would glance always, always to the doorway at every sound, smell, or sensation that reminded me even remotely of him.  
  
Through all of this, however, I found myself most unnerved by how it changed the apartment, how it changed the way I lived. I was often struck by the fact that no matter how long I was gone, everything always remained exactly where and how I had left it. I was never forced to pick boxer briefs off the floor, or clean food residue from crevices that went untouched in most households. The laundry almost never needed doing. I bought blankets for places that had always been warm.  
  
And then came the day that I ran into him. In some coffee shop where we used to go together. I did everything in my power to hide behind a large jar of biscotti, but he recognized me. He had the audacity to say hello.  
  
“Kyle,” he began, with some poisonous twinge of pity, “how have you been?”  
  
I realized that I could have said a great deal in response. I could have been vindictive and terrible and caused a great scene that women in their mid-forties with whooping crane laughs would squawk about later to the people they call friends. I could have ignored him, and paid him the discourtesy he deserved. But something inside me shifted and the harsh words I was searching for slipped away.  
  
“I've been alright, Daniel. And yourself?”  
  
“Work is hell, as usual, but I think it's all going to be for the best in the end. We're thinking about buying a house, you know.”  
  
“Is that so?” I watched as the red-haired girl operating the espresso machine threw away a third failed cup, and attempted once again to make a vanilla latte.  
  
“Yep, a nice little place just outside of town. You should come by some time. I'm sure Stan would be more than happy to see you.”  
  
“You know, Dan, I just don't think I'd feel comfortable doing that. But thanks for the invitation just the same.” I felt a sudden hot presence beneath my nose.  
  
“Your drink, sir,” the barista whispered, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorry about the wait.”  
  
“Don't worry about it,” I said with a small smile. As I paid her, I turned to Daniel. He looked happy, and curiously strong under the haze of whatever it was he felt for Stan. With some degree of fatality, I reached for his hand and shook it firmly. “Take care of yourself, Daniel. And Stanley too.”  
  
The last time he walked barefoot across the kitchen floor. The last time he lost the remote. The last time he woke up early on a Saturday morning just so we could fall back asleep together on the couch. The very last time he should ever belong to me.


End file.
